


Dies Irae

by AintNoMeIfThereAintNoYou



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Brother Feels, Dean Whump, Hurt Dean Winchester, Lots of Hurt, M/M, Pre-Series, Prostitution, Stanford Era, but little comfort, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-13 00:27:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1206070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AintNoMeIfThereAintNoYou/pseuds/AintNoMeIfThereAintNoYou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a result of being injured on a hunt, Dean's been unconscious for three days when John decides to take some African dream root and enter Dean's dreams and pull him out from wherever he might be. Little does he know of what he'll find in Dean's memories. </p><p>Written for skeletncloset for the following prompt on letskinkjensen:</p><p>HURT!DEAN, John finds out about Dean's extracurricular activities and hates himself.<br/>So I want someone to write this: Dean and John go on a hunt together (Stanford era?) and Dean is put into a coma by [insert monster here]. John kills the monster, finds Dean and speeds off to Bobby's (I assume they have IVs handy). John has to take dream root tea to find Dean's consciousness and John finds out about Dean's past sexual trauma and maybe the hustling he now does on the side. John is horrified with himself and so guilt-ridden he disappears on Dean because he can't be reminded of what he's at fault for.</p><p>Bonus if Dean's daddy issues also come up. Maybe the guys he goes for all resemble John. Give me EPIC ANGST.</p><p>While this probably falls under 'Mature' rather than Explicit, I thought I'd play it safe and rate it as such.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dies Irae

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skeletncloset (alexa_dean)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexa_dean/gifts).



> I tried to stick to the prompt as well as I could, but I went a little light on the whole 'Dean goes for guys that look like John' as that was veering into Dean/John, which I wasn't comfortable writing. I hope you still like it! I tried to heap on the angst for you.
> 
> I should probably add that the dream root works a little differently in the story to in Dream a Little Dream of Me.
> 
> A huge thank you to mb64 for betaing for me. I promise to never edit at one in the morning again.
> 
> Feedback is greatly appreciated.

The boy’s not woken in three days and John finds himself pacing back and forth in front of the couch, scared out of his mind. It was just supposed to be a simple hunt. Stick a silver knife through the werewolf’s ribs and get the hell out of Dodge.

John hadn’t expected the fucker to move so fast. Six rounds, empty barrel, and the thing was still out there, prowling in the shadows. He hadn’t expected it to attack Dean, cut through him like he was no more than paper, while John fumbled helplessly in the dark, trying to load more bullets.

He hadn’t expected Dean to not recover. Dean. The rock of the family. His sturdy little soldier. He looks over at the couch again, his eyes lingering over the fragile form, the tell-tale drips leading to the veins in his arms. God knows how Bobby even has medical equipment. When John had arrived with a limp Dean in his arms, Bobby had taken one look and hauled out the IV bags and drips and syringes, all with a gruff mumble of ‘this happens more than you’d think’.

 John had been angry at first. The werewolf that had done this to his son was still out there, tearing others to shreds. He’d stormed out of the house, slid into the Impala, and driven back to the spot, rage pumping through his veins until he’d lodged three bullets into the monster’s heart.

After that, he’d just felt dead.

He’d lost so much already. Mary had been taken from him and Sammy had left out of choice. Not Dean too, please not Dean.

John’s head swivels as Dean starts to jerk on the couch, arms flailing in silent panic. Bobby rushes in and starts checking on the drips again, trying to get the boy to lie back down. John kneels next to the arm of the couch, his hand resting on Dean’s blazing forehead.

“I’m going in,” he says, hoping the finality of his words will wipe that sceptical look off Bobby’s face. “This is the third time today, they’re getting worse. Get out some dream root, I’m going in.”

“Let the kid be, he’s doing better,” Bobby says quietly, his fingers dancing at Dean’s jugular as he checks his pulse.

“You call this better?” John tries not to get mad at the man who’s done a far better job of raising his boys than he ever did. Then again, it’s probably easier to give the boys time when all you do is sit around at home and answer phones. “Don’t tell me what to do, Singer.” He gets up and starts searching the shelves in the nearest cabinet for the root, despite knowing it’s pointless. You don’t find things in Singer’s house unless he wants you to find it. But this is  _his_ son, dammit. And he’s going to get him out of whatever nightmare loop he seems to have got himself caught up in.

Probably some stupid dream about clowns or something. Or is it Sam that’s terrified of clowns? It’s one of them, and he’s fairly sure the other one’s scared of trains or ships or something like that.

God, he really didn’t give the kids much time.

He pulls himself out of his little well of self-loathing to see Bobby shoving a glass in his hand. “Put one of Dean’s hairs in and drink it when you’re on a bed. I ain’t hauling your ass off the floor,” he says gruffly.

John accepts the drink with a nod and looks at it with distaste. It smells like cat piss and looks even worse once he’s plucked a hair off Dean’s head and added it. He walks upstairs, swirling the glass as he goes along, wishing the damn hair would stop floating at the top, flickering golden-brown every time it catches the light. Once inside the extra bedroom, he sits in the middle of the bed and downs the nightmare of a drink.

Nothing happens.

He’s still on the bed, the cup is still in his hands, the nasty, chewy taste is still making him five seconds from throwing up. He gets up off the bed, ready to go downstairs and ask Bobby what the hell he’s playing at.

But as he stands, the world seems to spin a little and he finds he has to sit down again and close his eyes. That stuff wasn’t the dream root, but it sure as hell wasn’t just water.  When he opens his eyes, he’s facing a motel room wall.

The room certainly isn’t one he’s rented out recently, but there’s a familiar feel to it. Like the face of an old acquaintance, it’s hidden away somewhere at the back of his mind, inciting a feeling similar to déjà vu and yet not quite.

The door handle starts to open and John jumps up, the bowie knife reflexively making its way from his inside jacket to his hand. The door swings open and a sopping wet, bedraggled teen enters the room. The kid ignores John completely and makes his way further into the room, dumping the supplies he’s picked up on the table.

“Dean?” John asks dumbly, knowing that the kid stood in front of him can be no one  _but_ Dean. Few kids manage to look both lost and deadly quite the way Dean always has.

Even more so now Sammy’s gone.

But this isn’t the twenty-five year old Dean he’s come in here to find, this is a thirteen year old Dean who closely resembles a drowned rat. The kid ignores him and calls out, “Sam?”

“’M not coming out ‘til you say the secret password.”

John looks over his shoulder but no one appears. Dean rolls his eyes and sighs before saying loudly, “Sam Winchester was awesome as Si Crowell in  _Our Town_. The best I’ve ever seen.”

A bundle of plaid comes running out of the bathroom and ploughs into the older boy. “Dean!”

John watches the little kid hug his brother, wondering how he’d missed that his younger son had always been stubborn like his old man. It’s been a year since the night Sam stormed out. A year of badly repressed memories and heavy-hanging guilt. Dean doesn’t talk about Sam, but John can see the loneliness in his face, in the curve of his lip and the clench of his jaw.

“Ow, get offa me!” Dean says, trying to hold back a laugh. “I’m wet and your cold’s gonna get worse,” he extracts himself from the little kid’s arms and holds him away from himself, appraising him. “You feeling any better? You look like one of those Eskimo people with that many layers on.”

“Dean! They’re called Inuits!” Sam exclaims, before breaking into a cough.

Dean’s face hardens and his hand flies up to the kid’s forehead. “You taken some aspirin like I told you to?”

Sam shakes his head vigorously, his shaggy hair flying across his face. “Couldn’t swallow it. Throat’s too sore.”

“Maybe we should call Dad?”

“Don’t, he’ll get mad and yell at you again!” Sammy squeaks, following it up with a long, phlegm-filled sniffle.

Guilt hits John like a truck. Two years earlier than this, sometime in 1990, he’d left the boys in a motel just outside Wisconsin for a quick overnight salt and burn. Halfway through the hunt, a call had come through on his cell, with Dean on the other end telling him to come quickly. He’d not heard the next bit, as the ghost had snuck up behind him and thrown him against a wall. Two hours later, he was driving home as fast as he could, one arm hanging uselessly out of its socket.

It had all been for a sprained ankle. Sam had tripped on some stairs and torn a ligament and Dean hadn’t been sensible enough to just fix it rather than send a call through. The kid had silently fixed his shoulder as John yelled at him about how close he’d been to getting him killed, how Sammy was his responsibility and he needed to quit relying on others now that he was a big kid, the whiskey that had originally been to numb the pain slowly making his voice louder and louder. It was after that mission that he’d started switching his cell off when on hunts.

John had pretty much forgotten about that incident. Apparently, the boys hadn’t.

“Well quit being a baby then and just take the aspirin,” Dean’s voice rises in frustration. “Be a man about it and quit whining.”

John reels as Dean throws John’s words at Sam. How many times had he said that to Dean when all he’d wanted was some modicum of a childhood?

But whereas Dean takes it silently, Sam starts crying. Big, fat tears roll over dumpy, red cheeks and his sniffling gets worse. “That’s really  _mean,_ Dean,” he pauses to cough again and John watches Dean crumple with guilt. “I  _tried_ to, I tr-tried really  _hard._  I’m not a big kid like you,” Sam starts coughing again and Dean wraps him in an awkward hug.

“It’s okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get mad,” Dean whispers, giving Sam the care and attention John never did. Sam may be John’s kid, but Dean’s the one who deserves full credit for raising him. Not that he’ll ever tell Dean. Hell, the kid’ll probably think John’s implying that Dean’s bad parenting is the reason Sam left in the first place.

“I’ll mix it in with some Gatorade, will you drink that?” Dean asks, letting go of Sam and reaching into the first aid kit.

The kid nods and sits on the bed again, no more than a foot from John. The sudden closeness reminds John of what he’s doing here. He’s here to find Dean, to find wherever his consciousness has hidden away, whichever memory it might be in.

John gets up, ignoring the pit in his stomach that is screaming about how he should have been here for Sam, how it shouldn’t have been left to a thirteen year old. But this is his life and he makes no apologies. Besides, lots of kids have it tough, it’s not just Dean. He walks over to the door and steps out, vaguely remembering what Bobby said about how one could travel between memories by entering or exiting places.

He steps out into an alleyway, the full moon shining above his head. It’s behind some seedy looking bar, the sort he’d usually try and hustle some pool in. He’s about to enter the bar, expecting to find Dean inside, his hand up some girl’s skirt, when he hears some movement behind the bins. Edging nearer, he sees the moonlit outlines of two men, one kneeling in front of the other. The man that’s stood up tilts his head upwards in a groan, moaning obscenities into the air. The pale light catches his face and he looks to be about middle aged, dark hair and darker eyes.

The man looks back down again and runs his hand through the other guy’s hair. “You sure this is your first time? Worth every cent, aren’t ya? Got a regular spot ‘round here?” The questions are accompanied by harsh grunts and the sounds of choking.

John hasn’t come here for whore talk, he’s come here for Dean. God knows why the kid remembers this memory, but John’s about to walk into the bar when there’s a yell and the man slaps the hooker violently round the face. “You little fuck! I’ll fucking break your teeth if you use them again!”

Within seconds, the man jerks the kid’s head back in place by the grip on his hair and shoves in again, his fat member disappearing down a stretched mouth. But those seconds in the open are enough. The same green eyes. The same bow lips. The same haunting look of resignation.

John never asked how Dean got the money. He’d just assumed the kid managed to find some odd jobs wherever they were staying. Besides, he always left them some, though maybe not enough for the whole time he was away. But Dean was resourceful, he’d find a way. Whether that was through credit card scams or hustling pool, John hadn’t cared.

Well, the kid had definitely  _hustled_.

John braces himself against the wall and retches, wishing to eject what he’d seen along with the poison that had made him see it. No such luck. He looks up and it’s still his boy, his little kid, on his knees in front of some middle-aged fucker who is old enough to be his father.

The man finishes soon after, still down Dean’s throat. He pulls his cock out and rubs it over Dean’s face once before zipping up again and pulling Dean up from his knees. He leans in and tucks some bills into the kid’s shirt pocket. “You did good, kid,” he says with a sated smile.

Dean gives a wan smile back. John doesn’t know if it’s directed at the money or the words.

Unable to watch anymore and wondering how long it’d take to get Dean, get out back into the real world, and off himself, John stumbles through the back door of the bar.

If the last memory was bad, this just takes the piss.

It can’t be real. It  _can’t_  be. There’s no way that’s his boy on the bed, both holes filled as two men thrust into him simultaneously while he tries to keep on all fours.

But it is, and he looks pretty much the same as he did lying on Bobby’s couch, so this can’t be more than a few months ago. The kid’s a young man now, he possesses the fluidity of an eel and catlike grace when he wants to. John begs loudly and desperately with his mind for Dean to bite down on the member in his mouth, to slug the guy heavily in the jaw, to pound the man’s face in until it’s indistinguishable.

But it seems Dean took on his first john’s advice about avoiding the use of teeth, for he keeps going and sees these men through to the end, indulging every one of their fantasies with silent compliance. John wants to leave, but he can’t get his feet to move. His eyes are fixed on the scene, watching as, again, men who are easily old enough to be the boy’s father (and kind of even look like him. The same dark hair and stout build once again), strip his son of all dignity and laugh as the kid puts himself through their derogatory games.

When these men have had their fill, when his boy, his brave little soldier, is lying broken beyond repair on stained motel bedsheets, they throw their money at him and leave the room. John finds he can move again, but part of him wants to stay. He wants to see Dean cry, to see anything but the complete lack of life in those eyes.

Slowly, his elder son raises himself off the bed and flops onto the floor. John forgets that this is no more than a memory and goes over to help, but is reminded of it soon enough when his hand vanishes right through Dean’s shoulder. Looking down, he can see the red stripes from the whip lashes he’s had administered no more than half an hour ago.

He’s failed as a father to both his sons. Now, one son has run away for good and the other won’t even call him when he’s short of cash.

Dean gets up onto his knees, which look sore from all the kneeling, and pushes himself back onto his feet. He slowly makes his way round the room, picking up the bills as he goes along. Still, his eyes are lacking of any emotion whatsoever. John’s a soldier. He’s seen his friends and fellow brothers blown to pieces by artillery shells, and yet, that doesn’t compare to how heavy his heart feels as he watches the mechanical way his son gathers the spoils of his hooking. The kid’s hobbling badly, he’s going to struggle to sit down the next day.

Once he’s collated the notes, he goes over to his duffel, pulls out an envelope and slides the money in. John catches the name before it’s shoved back in the duffel. If he thinks he couldn’t hate himself more, he’s wrong.

_Sam Winchester_

_Nathan Abbot Way_

_Stanford, CA 94305-8610_

John runs to the door, jerks it open, and throws himself out.

He stumbles over his shoes and falls onto his knees. The impact is cushioned by glittering yellow sand. He’s on a beach and, for once, he remembers this memory. It’s Sam’s eleventh birthday and they’re at the seaside in Texas. One of the benefits of not having a nine-to-five job is you can go to the beach on weekdays and find it practically empty.

John smiles at Sam’s look of awe as Dean does handstands in the water. It disappears when he hears a younger version of himself warn Dean to be careful and make sure Sam doesn’t go too deep. There’s no one to blame for what Dean will become but himself. He piled so much on the boy, justifying it all by thinking of how diamonds are just coals under pressure. But all he’d done was create coal dust. The kid had crumbled and flaked and given everything he had in order to follow John’s orders.

He was a better soldier than John would ever be. He deserved more than John’s apologies, he deserved freedom, like Sam.

There’s a movement by the rocks at the edge of the beach and John’s head jerks to see who the intruder is. It’s Dean. Twenty-five year old Dean, happy and smiling. John walks over and taps Dean on the shoulder, wondering how he can even start with the apologies. The kid’s head snaps round and Dean’s got his hands around John’s throat before John can say a word.

His son is the definition of juxtaposition. He’s a lethal weapon, a trained soldier who could kill you before you had the chance to blink. He’s a broken shell of a man, shattered by a life spent protecting and providing for others.

“Whoa, take it easy, son,” John grunts against an already loosening grip. He hates the way the first expression on his son’s face after recognition is fear. “Just me.”

“Sorry,” Dean mumbles, staring out onto the sand again, where the boys are building a sandcastle. Dean’s digging up the wet sand and Sam’s patting it into shape, trying to decide which time period it should belong to. Older Dean’s face looks peaceful again. John’s gaze traces the freckles on his skin, his beautiful, innocent, little boy, who’d seen so much and said so little.

“You’re lying on Bobby’s couch right now, we gotta get you back there.” John says it as gently as he can. Apparently it works, seen as Dean is now looking at him with surprise and just the slightest hint of suspicion.

“How’re you here?”

“I took some dream root to enter your psyche. I went through your memories until I found you.”

“What did you see?” Dean’s voice is hard and bitter, but his face is twitching with barely concealed panic.

John thinks of telling Dean everything, of explaining how sorry he is, how he deserves so much better. But it’s too late now. All Dean has left is the little pride he holds in the fact his family don’t know. And John can’t be the one to take that away.

“Not much, found you pretty quickly,” John replies gruffly, staring at the sea as he speaks. In a life that consists of fake ids and credit card fraud, what’s one more lie?

Dean nods, appeased. “How do I get back?”

“Go to your worst memory.”

John’s heart sinks as he realises how pointless his last lie was. They’re going to see Dean spread eagle on some cheap motel sheets anyway, performing some degrading act with those dead eyes again. His stomach heaves at the thought of witnessing it once more.

“You might not like what you see,” Dean warns, his voice heavy with sorrow.

John nods. He knows what he’s going to do. He’s going to bear through this, get his son up and running again, and then he’s going to walk out of the kid’s life forever. The kid deserves better than his unique selling point of unquestionable orders and fucked up priorities.

They both stand up and Dean leads the way over the rocks, leaving the laughing family they once were behind them. They head over to the Impala, Dean immediately going for the shotgun seat. John speeds up and beats him to it.

“It’s your car, you drive,” he says, going back on what he’d said when he’d first given Dean the car about how he’d always be driving as long as he was there.

Dean looks befuddled, but he just shrugs, opens the door and slides into the driver’s seat on the other side. John replicates the movement on the passenger side.

He’s still in the car this time, but the scene in front of him is one he’s gone over in his head over and over again. There’s the old house that they’d been squatting in, Sam’s hunched shoulders, the last thing he’d seen out of the grimy window he’d been peeking out of.

Sam walks down the road while Dean stands there, torn apart by the family he’s given everything to hold together. The strong gait and broad shoulders disappear in the horizon, the moonlight highlighting the barren road and tear tracks down Dean’s face.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Dean mumbles, looking across the road, maybe hoping for one last glimpse of the person he cared about the most.

Everything his son’s been through and he’s still sorry his father had to sit through that.

He closes his eyes, wishing there was even a god to pray to for forgiveness.

When he opens them, he’s lying on Bobby’s bed again, his head throbbing much the way it did the morning after a few too many drinks. He levers himself off the bed and forces himself downstairs.

Dean’s still on the couch, but he’s slowly manoeuvring himself into a sitting position with Bobby’s help. He tries to give John a quick smile, but it soon falls when John doesn’t smile back.

John doesn’t believe in drawing out goodbyes.

“There’s a hunt near Utica, looks like a shifter or a skinwalker from what I can tell,” he says gruffly, feeling Bobby’s glare but not responding. Bobby hasn’t seen what John’s seen. Bobby can never understand why this is necessary. “I’m off there now. You’re old enough to hunt on your own, so I don’t think we’ll need to meet up anymore.”

He doesn’t look at either of them as he speaks, he blocks out Dean’s protests and Bobby’s cussing. Every bone in his body is screaming at him to stay, to not break ties with the only family he has left. But he can’t ruin this kid’s life any more. He can’t look into that face every day and know the reason there will never be laugh lines around Dean’s eyes is because every reason he has to laugh has systematically been stripped from him.

So he picks up his bag and does what he’s been doing repeatedly for the last twenty-four hours. He steps out of the door and enters a new world.


End file.
